Scents and Sensibility
by amber2011
Summary: Sam just moved to a small town to escape his past and write a novel. Mercedes owns a perfume/bath/new age shop and makes a special cologne for him; and she and her sister Quinn teach him lessons about life and love.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

**Summary:** Sam meets Mercedes for the first time in her perfume shop.

**Rating:** Teen

**Author's Note:** This is a new story that is AU. None of the characters will behave as they normally do. This will alternate in first person between Sam, Mercedes' and Quinn's point of view though this may change as other characters are introduced.

* * *

**_AND SO WE MEET_**

_As perfume doth remain, In the folds where it hath lain, So the thought of you, remaining Deeply folded in my brain, Will not leave me: all things leave me: You remain – Arthur Symons_

I clutched my travel mug filled with black coffee as I walked through the snowy streets of North Star, my motorcycle boots clicked against the gray, cobblestone sidewalk. The snowfall was mild compared to what we had last week, a good two feet nearly buried this town and I spent a hell of a long time shoveling out my red pickup truck. I would've busted my back in the process if the kid next door hadn't helped me. But now I could walk without limping, so I decided to leave my tiny house and get some exercise even though it was snowing again and the cold air burned my lungs, I needed to be outside, away from the blank computer screen that constantly taunted me.

The air smelled like burning leaves and caramel. All year round you could smell the sweet, sugary scent of melted butter, brown sugar and cream wafting through the air, just from that aroma alone, a blind man would know he was in North Star; the delicious scent came from the Queen Bee Caramel Factory that kept almost everyone in this town employed except for me, I didn't work at the factory. On a good day I was a writer and on a bad day I was smoking too many cigarettes and posing as a tortured artist: today was one of those days. Queen Bee Caramels were North Star's claim to fame, that and the weeping Virgin Mary at the Sacred Heart Catholic Church on Wilmont Avenue.

I kept walking and nodding my head at the passerby. People were distantly polite the way I was with the homeless men who hung around outside of my apartment building, back when I lived in the big city and thought I was important. I sipped my coffee and looked up at the sky, it was peachy orange and the snowflakes danced around in the wind like tiny crystals. I watched a little girl, who was bundled up in a bright pink coat; try to catch snowflakes on her tongue. She closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and held up her arms toward the sky. Her mother was smoking a cigarette and talking on her cell phone, barely paying attention to her child. The little girl finally opened her eyes and her mother was halfway down the street, cursing into the phone, she ran after her mother, dropping one of her pink mittens in the snow. I picked up the mitten, it had little red hearts scattered over it and a tiny satin bow on the wrist. I called out to the little girl.

"Hey!"

She stopped and looked at me. Her eyes fearful. I knew those eyes. Big and blue. Shining in the summer sun.

"Isabel?"

The little girl shook her head; her nose was bright red from the cold. It wasn't Isabel, not even close, but a flash of those blue eyes reminded me… I bit the inside of my cheek to find a different pain, one that drew blood, a physical pain that was easy to feel and taste, not like the pain in my heart. I wanted the blood on my tongue and the flesh between my teeth. This was easier. I handed her the mitten.

"You dropped this."

She took the mitten and ran away. A few times she almost slipped on the icy sidewalk as she caught up to her mother, who was still engrossed in a conversation about bald men and tequila, her obnoxious, shrill voice echoed through the empty streets. I sighed and kept going. I felt a chill and drank some more coffee. Most of the shops were closed for the evening except for the new shop at the far end of the street. I saw its bright yellow light in the darkness. I followed the light. When I got to the shop, I peered into the window and saw a full figured black woman wiping down a glass counter. She had waist length dreadlocks and a nose ring; suddenly, she looked up from the counter and her eyes met mine. She smiled and waved at me. Her round body moved gracefully as she walked toward the door, and it was then I noticed what this place was called. I read the words painted on the door: Scents and Sensibility. As soon as the door opened, I felt the warmth of a wood burning stove. It made me think of my grandmother knitting socks. But the woman standing before me sure as hell wasn't my grandma, not even close; she was all curves wrapped in a plum colored sweater and long black skirt that touched the floor, holding open the door open she said:

"My second customer! Welcome to Scents and Sensibility!"

I laughed because she was so damn happy.

"Congratulations," I said.

Then she pulled me inside like we were old friends, gripping my elbow. Her hands were so small, like a child's hands. I looked around her shop. Perfume bottles crowded the shelves. Bars of soap were stacked in the display case along with bags of potpourri and bottles of oil. The hardwood floors were covered with Persian rugs. A tabby kitten was curled up on a black velvet chair in the corner next to the wood stove. The place smelled like the inside of Bath and Body Works only better. She pointed to my mug.

"I'm making ginger tea, would you like some?"

"No, thanks, I'm a coffee drinker."

Walking over to the stove, she hummed to herself. I watched her as she made her tea.

"So what do you sell here?"

"A little bit of everything. Bath stuff. New age trinkets. But what people really want to buy is my perfume. I customize it."

"Customize?"

"Yes. It's your own personal fragrance that nobody else has, made just for you," she turned around and looked at me.

"So why are you here? Buying something for your girlfriend?"

I wondered if she was flirting with me. It's been so long since I flirted with anyone. It felt foreign like trying to put your shoes on the wrong feet. Then I said the first thing to come to mind:

"Make a scent for me."

She tilted her head and smiled.

"Really? You want cologne?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"I don't know. You don't seem like the type."

"We've known each other five minutes."

She nodded. "True."

"So I could be any type."

"Well, if you're serious…"

"I am."

"Ok, come closer."

I walked toward her and stood in front of her. The stove's heat made my cheeks tingle.

"Um, is this ok?"

"Lean down, I'm short."

"What is it you're trying to do?"

She smiled and touched my arm.

"I have to smell you."

I backed away from her. This was weird.

"You know, I changed my mind. I think I better go."

Instead of being offended, she laughed, throwing back her head and holding her stomach, she shook a little as she tried to suppress the onset of giggles taking over her body.

"Don't be such a prude. I have to get your natural scent. Everyone has one."

"So you just go around sniffing people?"

"No, don't be silly. I ask first. Alright, give me your scarf. I'll smell that instead."

I unwound my bright red wool scarf from around my neck and handed it to her.

"I think asking for a piece of clothing is more appropriate."

She took the scarf from me and held it to her nose, closing her eyes she inhaled its scent, and a sad smile spread across her face.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Your loss. Grief is never easy."

I almost dropped my mug. I felt light-headed. She shooed the kitten out of the velvet chair and helped me sit down.

"I hope I didn't upset you. Mama always told me not to say too much and here I go running my mouth you would think –"

A creaking door interrupted her. It was the door at the far end of the shop; I knew that on the other side was an apartment, because the people who rented this place before, an older couple, who sold Civil War memorabilia, lived back there until they died. A thin, blonde woman walked in, her eyes were blue, but not a blue I had ever seen, they were dark like storm clouds. She wore a long, green velvet skirt and an oversized black sweater, her feet were in pink slippers; her beauty was the kind only found in fairy tales: she was a medieval princess locked in a tower waiting for her prince. Her long hair reached her waist, it was tangled up in knots and it needed to be combed. She glanced at me and looked away.

"Mercedes, I can't find my toothbrush."

So the shop owner's name was Mercedes.

"In a minute Quinn, I have a customer."

Quinn pointed at me.

"Him?"

"Do you see anybody else here?"

"No."

"Well?"

Quinn stared at me and turned back to Mercedes.

"I couldn't find the fresh rosemary either."

"We'll use sage. Don't worry."

"I'm Sam," I said to Quinn. I wanted her to know my name. I held out my hand, but she only stared at it as if I had offered her something foul, like a dead mouse.

"I don't touch people's hands that I don't know."

Mercedes looked at us and her eyes grew suspicious.

"I need to close up. Start boiling the water and I'll be back in a minute," She said to Quinn, who continued to frown at me.

"Ok, don't be long."

Then she shuffled out of the shop, closing the door behind her. Mercedes sat down next to me.

"I'm really sorry about what I said."

"It's alright. How did you know?"

"Scent tells a lot about people," she picked a few lint balls off of the scarf, and said, "I can make you cologne, but I need some time, do you need it right away?"

"No, take your time. I have to go. How much do I owe you?"

"We figure that part out later."

I didn't argue with her. I had something more pressing on my mind.

"So is Quinn your roommate?"

"No, she's my sister."

I decided not to ask any more questions. The sister thing threw me for a loop. I stood up and stretched.

"It was nice meeting you."

She stood up too and held out her hand to me.

"You too, Sam. Come back in a week."

I felt like a giant as I enveloped her tiny hand in mine. I had a feeling my life was about to change.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary:** Quinn is worried about Mercedes' attraction to Sam and what it may mean.

**Rating:** Teen

**Warning:** Mention of racist incident

**Author's Note:** Thanks for reading! Please note that questions will be answered about the sisters as each chapter progresses.

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**CHAPTER 2**

_ "He would be able to create a scent that was not merely human, but super human, an angels scent, so indescribably good and vital that who ever smelt it would be enchanted and with his whole heart would have to love him." ― Patrick Süskind_

**_SISTER BOND_**

**_Mercedes_**

Quinn chopped the celery for the chicken soup we were making for dinner. She kept her eyes on the cutting board as she sliced through the long, green stalks; she gripped the knife handle so tightly that her knuckles turned white. I stirred the pot on the stove and dropped in a few sprigs of sage. The kitchen was quiet except for the quiet ticking of the antique cuckoo clock that hung above the doorway, and the knife tapping against the wooden board, but the most deafening noise was the silence between us - it suffocated me. Quinn hunched over the counter, her tangled, blonde hair, hung down her back, in matted knots. I was close enough to pick up her scent, the hot, peppery smell, tickled my nostrils and my eyes watered. She dumped the chopped celery into the pot and glared at me.

"You lied to him."

I reached for her arm, trying to calm her down.

"Quinn, I –"

She stepped back, avoiding contact.

"I know what's going on. I felt the energy change when Sam came. We just got here and everything is shifting."

Quinn's scent grew stronger. It stung my eyes and I began to cough.

"I couldn't help it."

"This can't happen. We're not like them, Mercedes. Every time you get caught up in desire…"

I walked out of the kitchen and into the living with her following close behind me.

"You need to treat him like the other customers."

I sat down on the ugly gold couch. We got it at a yard sale because I was going through a retro phase. Vintage was my style, but now as I looked at it, I wanted to toss it in the nearest dumpster. She sat on the other end of the couch, as far away from me as possible. Her scent was less strong, she was calming down. I could breathe again.

"There was something about him," I said, closing my eyes and remembering Sam's golden hair and green marble eyes, "I don't know. I couldn't help it. I had to know him."

"Like you had to know Anthony?"

Anthony, with his slow swagger and dreams of a Huxtable future. I pushed him from my mind. He wasn't the only one, but somehow his wound out lasted the others. I scooted next to Quinn and put my arm around her. She wanted to pull away but my emotions seeped through, and she allowed for the contact. Her anger dissolved and the peppery stench disappeared and now she smelled like a summer rain shower, her hurt and despair filled my nostrils. For a second we were little girls again hiding from bullies. I hugged her to my heart. I knew all of Quinn's emotions without her ever saying a word and she knew mine.

"He's not a threat," I said.

"Mercedes, I can feel what you're feeling."

"I know."

"Then Sam is a threat."

She pulled away from me.

"He's inside you somehow. Like Anthony was."

"We didn't kiss," I said, placing my hand on her shoulder, "We barely touched."

"You asked to smell him. You didn't ask him what he likes or where he's from, or his favorite places and memories like you're supposed to when you create a scent."

"So you were listening?"

"I told you the energy shifted. His pull is strong."

I twisted a lock of her hair around my finger.

"I'm sorry, but I had to do what I did. I had to know about him. That's why I smelled him."

"And what did you find out?"

"He's grieving."

Quinn looked over at me, her bright blue eyes held a an angry glint.

"I don't like what you're feeling for him. Tell him not to come back."

I held her hand, tracing her palm with my fingers and then intertwined our fingers together. We both had the same heart shaped birthmark on our left thumb. This always made me smile because it was the only physical thing that made us twins. Quinn closed her eyes as my emotions ran through her.

"Could you at least try to make it stop?"

"I wish I could."

She nodded and opened her eyes.

"I don't want to design the bottle for his cologne. Use a pre-made one."

That sort of annoyed me, but I let it slide.

"Ok."

Quinn stared at me a long time, then she said:

"Remember who you are. We're not like them. Those people out there will never understand us. Mama and Papa said so."

I moved away from her, my anger rising.

"I know who I am."

"Then why do you keep doing this? Trying to be like them."

I got up from the couch, pulling her along with me.

"Come on, let's go finish making dinner."

Instead of following me she went over to the desk at the far end of the living room, and picked up the small brown UPS package from Grandma Sadie. It was delivered that morning.

"If you know who you are, then we should look at this."

I started to walk away.

"I think the soup may be boiling over."

"Nothing is boiling over and you know it."

She held out the package to me.

"We should open it. Grandma Sadie said –"

"Not now. Just not now. I'm starving. Let's finish the soup."

Quinn sighed and dropped the package back onto the desk.

**ooo**

After dinner I sat in front of the fireplace and sipped on a cup of hot chocolate spiked with amaretto while Quinn holed up in her room reading Pride and Prejudice for the millionth time. She loved Jane Austen which is why she named our shop Scents and Sensibility; I thought it was too cutesy but I went along with it anyway, because we were business partners. I felt restless so I got up from the couch and stared out the window. It was snowing again. When we lived in Hawaii, I don't remember it snowing, I just remembered the rain and the cool ocean breezes that tickled our skin. In Alaska, there was nothing but snow, and green and violet lights that danced across the midnight sky. Quinn said the lights were magic and sometimes we made wishes on them. Papa's job as a photojournalist had our family living everywhere. We were nomads.

I wanted a cigarette so bad I could taste it. Quitting was harder than I thought. I needed to focus on something else. My nerves were shot. Quinn, once again, had touched my sore spot. Of course I knew who I was, how could I forget? Did most people smell death in a new car? I took another sip of hot chocolate. North Star was where we would begin again. I liked change and I felt this change was for the best.

I saw a few boxes that needed to be unpacked in the corner. With all my nervous energy, I opened the first one in the stack and realized it was our memory box, filled with pictures, report cards, awards, and other sentimental mementos. I picked up my favorite family photo. It was taken on the front porch of our rented house when we lived in Zimbabwe. Quinn and me were about 7 years old and we wore matching purple sundresses; I sat on Papa's lap while she sat on Mama's. I was all smiles, but Quinn wore a stoic expression, looking just like Papa, and I looked like Mama, who squinted at the camera, smiling sweetly, her big afro fluffed out around her head, her long red halter dress hugged her wide hips, accentuating her plump figure. Papa smiled more with his eyes; he was tall and strong, his pale skin was peeling and sunburned. I remembered how hot it was that day; and the smell of Mama's tropical perfume that made me long for coconut ice cream. The photographer pointed at Mama and me and asked a lot of questions; I didn't understand what language he was speaking but Papa got upset. I couldn't recall why he didn't take the photo himself using the timer on his camera.

People thought I was a foster kid whenever Papa and me went out in public by ourselves; the curious looks we got angered him sometimes. One day when we were in the supermarket buying last minute stuff for a dinner party, somebody called the police because they thought Papa had kidnapped me. Mama raised hell that day when the officer showed up at our house to verify that I was Robert Fabray's little girl. But what really confused people was that I was his biological child and Quinn was my twin. Our birth was fascinating enough to be in magazines and newspapers. I guess not much else was going on in 1984 except that Thriller was burning up the charts. Geneticists said it was rare, though not impossible, to have one twin that looked black and one that looked white born of a white father and black mother. When we were toddlers, Diane Sawyer interviewed Mama and Papa for a nightly news segment about interracial families; Quinn cried the whole time and threw up on Diane. Papa said that was the best part of the interview. I hung the Zimbabwe picture above the couch. We were such a beautiful family. Quinn came into the living room. She gazed at the photo and a smile spread across her pretty face.

"I love that picture."

"Me too. But I wish you had smiled."

"The photographer was mean. He touched my arm."

I was startled when she said that. At a very young age, Quinn avoided physical contact with strangers and was good at keeping her distance.

"What did you feel?"

"He had a black heart."

"Do you want to help me hang up the rest of the pictures?"

"Sure."

Together we hung up a montage of our lives. It eased the tension between us, and when we were done, our living room looked like home. The last thing we hung on the wall were the name pictures we painted together at a craft shop. Mine was all flowery and I used a cursive font: Mercedes Billie Jean Fabray was written across a green meadow filled with violets and roses. And Quinn's was more "artsy," it was like she channeled Van Gogh's Starry Night - heavy yellow swirls and dark blue stars floated across a city in the sky, but it suited her personality, and the name Quinn Latoya Fabray was written inside the iridescent bubbles that hovered above the city. She put her arm around me.

"I'm sorry I made your eyes water."

"That can't be helped Quinn, you know that. It's your scent of anger."

"Well, I'm sorry anyway."

I gave her a hug.

"Don't worry about it."

While we stood there admiring how good the living room now looked, my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the number and I almost ignored it, but then I thought it might be business related so I answered it.

"Hello"

"So what does grief smell like?"

It was Sam.

**End Notes: **The biological black and white twins storyline was inspired by a story in the news that happened in the UK. As for the police incident, that recently happened in Virginia when a white father was at a Walmart with his biracial daughters and security grew suspicious thus calling the police. Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

**Summary: **Mercedes meets Sam in person to answer her question about grief.

**Rating: **Teen

**Warning: **Cursing, brief mention of sexual encounters

**Author's Note: **Thanks for following, reviewing and reading!

* * *

**_THE SMELL OF GRIEF_**

**__****_SAM_**

___I was in the supermarket today when I walked through a cloud of perfume. It's said that scent evokes memories stronger than other senses and I'm inclined to agree, as I breathed the perfume and tried not to cry. You see, someone had gotten up that morning and headed to the supermarket wearing the same perfume my grandmother used to wear and it was her smell that I was surrounded by for a few moments, standing between the leeks and the strawberries. - Veroncia Foale, On Grief, And the Addition of Hormones_

I wanted to hang up the phone. I felt stupid for calling so late. Mercedes was impatient.

"Sam?"

"Uh, yeah, um, so what you said tonight about smelling grief and everything, I just wanted to know, hell I don't know – "

I heard some noise in the background, like she was shushing someone.

"That's why you called me?" Her voice was dull as if she were giving a lecture and nobody was listening. I lit up a cigarette.

"Yeah, if this isn't a good time - "

"It's not."

I took a drag from my cigarette and exhaled.

"Sorry."

"Why do you want to know what it smells like?"

"Because I like answers. Right now, I can't come up with any."

"Meet me on Friday morning and we can talk about it."

"I can call back. I mean we don't have to -"

She interrupted me.

"You ever been to Earl Joe's?"

Earl Joe's was this hole in the wall coffee shop that was better than Starbucks by one thousand percent.

"Yeah, why?"

"Be there on Friday morning around 9:30."

I noticed that she didn't ask if I was free or if that was a good time. None of that stuff was up for negotiation. I had nothing planned for Friday morning or any other morning and I sensed that she knew that which bothered me. I wanted to lie and say I would be out-of-town. I wanted to seem like less of a loser.

"I have to write."

"Write?"

"I have this deadline, so I don't think I can do 9:30."

I heard that noise in the background again. Was it quiet bickering? I couldn't place it.

"You'll always have a deadline. I'll see you Friday morning." Her voice softened a little, and she sounded less dull and annoyed, just resigned to the fact that we were meeting.

"But I just - "

"Yes?"

"Nothing."

"Go to sleep, Sam. You need your rest." Then she hung up.

She knew I would be there and saw through my bullshit. I finished my cigarette and called my agent Artie. He didn't answer for a long time and when he finally did he sounded groggy.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think people can smell emotions?"

"What?"

"Can people smell –"

"Sam, what the hell are you talking about? Have you finished the book?"

I got up from the couch and went into the kitchen, opened the fridge and took out my vodka and cranberry juice.

"Were you asleep?"

"Yeah, Sudafed knocks me out."

"I didn't know you had allergies."

"Neither did I. It's Lord Tubbington. Thank God, we're getting rid of him."

"That's a dumb name for a cat."

"You know what else is dumb?"

"What?"

"Smelling emotions."

"I walked into that didn't I?"

"Faster than Brittany. Now what is this about?"

I told him everything from meeting Mercedes and Quinn, the scarf smelling incident and making me a cologne. Artie wasn't impressed.

"They sound like New Age nut cases."

"I'm meeting Mercedes on Friday."

"How many chapters have you finished?"

"Artie –"

"Schuester keeps calling me about the book. I thought moving would help."

I sipped my drink.

"Me too."

Artie sighed.

"I know it's hard but –

"Have you ever lost anybody?"

"No but I –"

"Then you don't know how hard it is."

"Come to the city. We'll hit the clubs, do some coke…"

I laughed.

"We've never done coke and we're too old for clubs. Besides, Brittany would have a fit."

"You're right about the coke. I need to stop reading Bret Easton Ellis. And I can handle my wife."

"Sure, you can."

"Come for a visit anyway. We'll just chill out."

I finished my drink and poured another.

"I saw a little girl tonight that looked like Isabel."

"I'm sorry, Sam, I wish I could –"

"She had on a pink coat. She fell down in the snow. And she had blue eyes, remember how Izzy's eyes crinkled up when she smiled?"

Artie was silent. I kept talking.

"She knew I lost someone just by smelling my scarf."

"What was her name again?"

"Mercedes."

"Do you have a last name?"

"The store website says Fabray."

"You're in a bad place. She's screwing with your head. But knowing you, you're not going to listen to me."

I grabbed a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos from the cupboard and tore it open.

"Of course, I'm not."

"I'm doing a background check."

I rolled my eyes.

"Do what you need to do."

"I want to see ten chapters by Friday."

"Yeah, whatever." I said and hung up.

I spent the rest of the night getting drunk, eating junk food and smoking cigarettes. I fell asleep. I had a dream about Mercedes. She stood in a misty fog; I couldn't see her face. She held up my scarf, twisted it in her hands, and water came out. "You have too many tears," she said. I woke up lying on my bedroom floor, holding a bottle of Jack Daniels. My jeans were damp. I smelled like urine and I was sweating. I stood up and wobbled my way toward the bathroom and I threw up in the toilet. I spent the morning drinking black coffee and ignoring the phone. When I got tired of being cooped up in my messy living room, I took a walk in the woods behind my house, taking a trail that led to a creek. I liked how the snow crunched underneath my boots. Something about the cold, winter air, made me feel alive. I loved it. The ice and snow covered trees sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine. Whenever I walked in the woods, I carried a baseball bat with me. After years of living in the city, I always carried some form of protection. I had a gun at home, but taking it on a hike in the woods seemed a bit much. Every now and then, starlings and blue jays flew overhead, I saw bits of bright blue sky through the clusters of tree branches. When I got to the creek, I stood on the bank and stared at the frozen water.

_Daddy where do fish go when the water freezes?_

_No place._

_They have to go somewhere…_

I took my bat and slammed it against the creek, breaking the ice. I watched the dark water rise to the surface. I kept smashing the ice, chasing out her voice, her face… but Isabel was beside me, holding my hand, I felt her all around me.

**ooo**

Earl Joe's was empty when I got there on Friday morning. It was a small white house at the end of Queen Bee Lane and if it wasn't for the red and white striped sign out front you would think it was someone's home. The hardwood floor creaked as I walked inside, and the smell of chickoree coffee and baking bread wafted in the air. The man behind the counter was bald and had a nose ring; he stared at me as I looked at the chalkboard menu. I ordered a black coffee for myself, and a ginger tea for Mercedes. He nodded, squinted his eyes, and made the coffee and tea. My stomach growled.

"What's baking?"

"Tea rolls. They'll be done in a few minutes. Do you want one?"

"Yeah, I'll have two."

He put the hot drinks on a tray and pushed it toward me.

"Go ahead and sit down. I'll bring the rolls out to you."

"Thanks."

He stared at me again. His gray eyes were so intense like he was trying to remember every detail of my face.

"Would you like to try a sample of our hibiscus brownies. It's my recipe."

"Hibiscus?"

The barista nodded, his eyes grew wide with excitement.

"You see, I use Dutch cocoa and –"

Just then the door opened and Mercedes walked into the coffee shop, all bundled up in a bright yellow coat, her dreadlocks hanging down her back. I waved at her.

"Hey."

She looked at me and smiled, biting her lip.

"Were you waiting long?"

"No, I got you a ginger tea. Let's sit down," I glanced over at the barista who looked at Mercedes as if he wanted to slap her, "We'll be over here, I said.

He sighed.

"I'll get the rolls."

We sat down at a table near the window. She took off her coat and reached for the mug of tea.

"Thanks for getting this."

"No problem. How are you doing?"

She shrugged.

"Alright."

I was never good at small talk, so I got to the point.

"Are you a witch?"

"What?"

"Do you practice witchcraft?"

Mercedes laughed.

"No, I don't."

"Then are you psychic?"

"No."

"Then what are you?"

"Different."

I folded my arms and leaned back in my chair.

"Do you smell anything now?"

"Coffee."

"You know what I mean."

The barista came out with the rolls and put them on the table, shooting a death dagger glare at Mercedes, who didn't notice because she was gazing out the window at the passerby. She sipped her tea and picked up a roll, breaking it in half.

"These are great, especially when they're fresh out of the oven like this," she bit into the roll, closing her eyes as she chewed, "Go on and try one."

I touched her arm.

"Does Quinn do what you do too?"

"Blackberry jam tastes so good on these rolls. I'll get us some," she got up from the table, and I reached out and grabbed her hand.

"You're probably used to gliding past people, dropping shit on their doorstep and just walking away, but I'm not letting you do that me."

She sat back down.

"That man likes you."

"How do you know?"

"Aside from the obvious, I smelled his lust. It's hot and sweet like burned vanilla sugar."

"He could be attracted to you."

She looked at me and took another bite of her roll.

"It was going in your direction. Besides, I picked up on it the second I walked in. He's pissed cause he thinks I ruined his game. Like he had a chance. You're not his type."

"I'm not gay."

"I didn't say you were."

I watched her eat. For a second I imagined what she would look like lying naked on my bed, eating something decadent like strawberries dipped in warm chocolate. I craved a woman's touch. Just being wrapped up in a woman's arms, filling her up, that awesome feeling of sliding into her…

"Stop it," she said.

"Huh?"

Then I realized my scent was giving off my emotions.

"Am I burned vanilla sugar too?"

"No, you're lemons and sand."

"Why I don't smell it?"

"Most people don't know their own scent."

"Why?"

"Because they don't know themselves."

She finished eating the roll and drank her ginger tea.

"I don't know how to explain how I am."

I picked up the sugar bowl and dumped a few teaspoons into my coffee.

"I lost my virginity to a girl I met at the beach. We did it in sand dune after dark. She worked at a lemonade stand, and she smelled like lemons. It lasted ten minutes and I never saw her again."

Mercedes looked at me and said nothing. I felt like an idiot for telling her that story. I've never told anyone that story.

"Is that what makes my scent?" I asked, "Is that how it works?"

She stared out the window. I wished I could read her mind.

"Mercedes?"

After a few moments, she glanced over at me and said:

"Yes?"

"What does grief smell like?"

"You already know."

"Tell me anyway."

"Wet stones. Mud. Sawdust. At least on you it does."

"Oh."

I remembered the headstone and the rain splashing against it. I heard her voice shouting for me. Orange mud squished beneath my boots, wooden boards piled next to a deep hole. I couldn't breathe.

Mercedes grabbed my hand.

"Are you ok?"

I closed my eyes. It felt like I was drowning deep into an ocean, just going deeper and deeper, letting the water cover me, I had to join her somehow, didn't I? It was painful, yes, but I heard about a white light…

"Sam!"

I tried to speak. All these words formed in my head but they ran together like free verse poetry – stay, go, sunrise, empty porch, rag doll, smile, too bright, always too bright…

_"Mr. Evans we found her body"_

Mercedes said my name again. I clung to her hand and opened my eyes. I was finally able to breathe.

"I don't know what happened," I said.

"Do you want to go to the hospital?"

"No."

"You look pale."

"I'm always pale."

"Are you sure you're ok?"

"I don't know."

She shook her head, the morning sun shined on her rich, brown skin.

"Sam, I'm sorry. I crossed the line and revealed too much."

We sat there in silence finishing our drinks. I ate the other roll though my hunger was long gone. Mercedes fished around in her purse and pulled out a medium-sized black box, and handed it to me.

"Here's the cologne. You don't have to pay for it. I've caused enough trouble."

I could have cared less about the cologne.

"Thanks, but I thought it would take longer."

"Inspiration struck me." She stood up and put on her coat. "I have to go. Take care of yourself."

I didn't want her to go, but why did I want her to stay? All this truth she threw at me made me sick. Nobody likes the truth, we like lies and fantasies and stuff that makes us feel good. That's why I became a writer, to help people escape. I reached for her hand and held it.

"My daughter Isabel is dead. But I see her on every street corner. I'll be at the supermarket and suddenly she's beside me in the check out line. I don't know why I walked into your shop or why I'm sitting here now. I just feel like this is where I'm supposed to be."

"I can't take away your pain."

"I'm not asking you to."

"Then what are you asking?"

I let go of her hand.

"I want to know all about you. I want answers. Nobody has read me like you have. I need to know why."

Mercedes sat down again.

"Sam I – "

Suddenly, the door opened and Quinn walked in. Her coat was identical to Mercedes' but it was too large for her small frame, her hair was twisted into a bun on top of her head. Her blue eyes scanned the shop and then she saw us. She walked over to our table and placed her hand on Mercedes' shoulder.

"I can't believe you came here," she said, "You know better."

"Hi Quinn, nice to see you again," I said.

She ignored me.

"Why did you come, Cedes?"

"You know why," Mercedes said, looking up at her, "Stop acting like Mama."

"Do you two always dress alike?" I asked, trying to ease the tension. I saw a small black spider crawling on the sleeve of Quinn's coat. I reached out and tried to flick it off. She backed away from me.

"What are you doing?"

"You have a spider on your coat. I was trying to get it off."

I thought she would freak out and start screaming. She looked down at the spider and touched it gently with her finger.

"He's lost."

"The spider?" I asked.

Quinn stepped away from the table.

"Don't ever touch me."

"Quinn, calm down," Mercedes said.

"He tried to touch me!"

Mercedes got up from the table and handed Quinn her empty cup. Quinn removed the spider from her coat and put it in the cup, whispering to it like it was a baby or something. Mercedes put her arm around her sister.

"He was only touching your coat."

"I don't know him. And _you _don't _know _him either."

"I was trying to get rid of the spider," I said.

Quinn glared at me.

"You thought I would be grateful?"

"Most people would be."

"Stop trying to win us over."

"Do you think everybody is out to get you?"

"People always want something and you're no different."

"Then tell me what I want."

"You probably asked her how she does what she does, right? I mean how weird is it to have such a talent? Oh, and now you want to _understand and get answers am I right?_"

"Quinn, look I –"

She shook her head.

"Everyone is curious in the beginning, then it's too much to handle. All of this is a mistake. I won't have you hurting my sister like the others because you think it's cool to explore her like a freak show."

Mercedes hugged Quinn.

"Yats mlac, I evah uoy."

"I ylno tnaw ot tcetorp uoy." Quinn said.

I had no idea what they were saying. The language they spoke wasn't anything I ever heard before. Then I said something totally ridiculous.

"Why don't all of us spend the day together?"

"Did you hear anything I said?" Quinn asked.

"Every word."

"Sam, we have to go," Mercedes said "I don't think spending any more time together is a good idea."

"Why?"

Quinn tugged on Mercedes' sleeve.

"Come on, Cedes."

"I'm sorry," Mercedes said as they both began to walk away. I jumped up from the table, my heart thumping in my chest like a jackhammer.

"Wait!"

They turned around. Mercedes looked scared.

"What's wrong?"

I was on the verge of tears and I blinked them away before these two strange, beautiful, eccentric, women could see me cry. I said what I needed to say, no matter how stupid or fucked up I may have sounded. I couldn't let them walk away from me.

"I think you two are as lost as I am. I may not have whatever it is that you have, but I know human nature, and I can tell when people are used to running away, don't you ever get tired?"

Quinn pulled Mercedes closer to her side.

"I don't like your energy."

"What would happen if I touched you?"

Before Quinn could answer, Mercedes said:

"We have to go."

"I only want friendship. Nothing more."

For a second I saw a brief flicker of sadness pass through Mercedes' eyes, but then she smiled.

"No more lemons and sand."

"A male reflex that won't happen again. I swear."

Quinn wasn't as receptive.

"We have each other. We don't need you."

She linked arms with Mercedes and refused to meet my gaze. I figured she was insane or maybe OCD? I couldn't tell. Each woman was unlike anyone I had ever met in my life, and I couldn't let either one walk away from me, not now when they were within my reach.

"Quinn, I promise I won't touch you."

"Ruo dnob si dilos," Mercedes said to Quinn, who clung to her arm; her sister's words calmed her down, but she still didn't trust me.

"I don't understand why you want our friendship."

"Because I want the truth even if it's ugly."

Quinn rolled her eyes as if I had said something she heard a million times before.

"Look in the mirror. You don't need us for that."

"Well, I can see you too."

"I'm sure you can. You're going to tell me that I'm beautiful, right? No wait, I'm cold and just need a little warming up, that's always a good one. Whatever it is you think you see is wrong."

She spit out her words like bitter venom because hurt dogs will holler. Mercedes stroked Quinn's back, humming an odd tune that sounded Celtic. Something in how they moved and touched each other was so effortless, and their devotion to each other was clear.

"I see a glass wall," I said, "and you're trapped behind it."

I saw a crack in Quinn's porcelain armor - just a tiny crack that registered in her stormy eyes and the slight twitch of her perfect mouth.

"That's really brilliant," she said, with a sarcastic smirk, "What about my sister?"

I gazed at Mercedes who looked into my eyes, never backing down for a moment. The truth didn't scare her. I thought of how she called me out earlier when I had a brief lusty fantasy about her. It reminded me of when my mother caught me reading under the covers after bedtime, the flashlight shining on my face. I thought I had fooled her but really, she knew me all along.

"I see light."

"You're very original," Quinn said, "But you're not looking hard enough. We're the same."

Her voice lost some of its anger; but she wasn't going to give me credit for my observations; instead it was easier for her to belittle them. Mercedes was light. Quinn was glass. That's how I saw them.

"I want you both to spend one day with me. And if you're convinced I'm an asshole, I'll leave you alone," I said.

They whispered to each other in that strange language. After a few minutes of intense whispering with her sister, Mercedes smiled and said:

"Meet us at Fairy Park on Sunday."

"What time?"

"Noon."

The mysterious and magical Fabray sisters left in a flurry of bright yellow coats, rushing out the door, leaving a scent behind that I hadn't noticed before; it was sweet and spicy like warm gingerbread with under tones of burning glass. I had so many questions - like what language they were speaking and why did they live in another world? I walked out of the coffee shop with my hands stuffed in my pockets, wondering what in God's name I was getting myself into. When I got home, I tried to write, but no words were good enough. For the first time in my life, I had to tell the truth, my version of reality wasn't enough.

**ooo**

_**MERCEDES**_

"You spoke our language," Quinn said as we drove to the supermarket.

"I know."

I kept my eyes on the road and tried to ignore her staring at me. I picked up her scent - sunshine and clean linen.

"Don't get happy. I had to calm you down."

"It's still a part of you."

"I never said it wasn't."

Quinn's scent changed, now it was like rain, I hurt her and I felt awful.

"I'm sorry."

"Take down the mind block," she said

I pulled into the Safeway parking lot and turned off the engine. It always came back to that damn mind block. I loved Quinn, but I needed my privacy.

"No."

"But -"

"We aren't little girls any more. Some of our thoughts shouldn't be shared. Besides you feel everything I do."

Quinn looked away from me and opened the door.

"Come on, we've got a lot of shopping to do."

We walked into the store, but no longer side by side. She raced ahead of me.

"Quinn, wait up!"

I knew she heard me, yet she kept going, as if I was a pesky stranger trying to get her attention. When I caught up to her next to the row of shopping carts just outside of the entrance, I grabbed her elbow.

"You heard me. I know you did. Is this about Sam?"

"No, but I do think it's stupid that we're spending a day with him."

"You didn't think so a few hours ago."

"I know."

I got a shopping cart and pushed it through the automatic door. Quinn followed behind me.

"I miss your thoughts."

I gripped the handle of the shopping cart and made my way toward the produce section.

"Do we need apples?" I asked as I walked up to the piles of shiny Macintosh apples on display.

"I want you to let me back in, why is that so bad?"

I tore a plastic bag off of the dispenser and began filling it with apples.

"It's not bad. Look, just because I spoke our language doesn't mean I want everything the same."

"That language protects us. Mind blocks separates us," Quinn said then paused, "All we have is each other."

"Have you ever wanted more?"

She shook her head.

"No."

"Someday you will," I said.

Quinn looked away from me, suddenly becoming interested in the chipped nail polish on her fingernails.

"I'll go get the milk. We always forget it."

She walked away and this time I didn't try to keep up.

* * *

**End Notes:** Thanks for reading! The language they were speaking was just backwards talk.

"Yats mlac, I evah uoy." - Stay calm. I have you.

"I ylno tnaw ot tcetorp uoy." Quinn said. - I only want to protect you.

"Ruo dnob si dilos," Mercedes said to Quinn - Our bond is solid


End file.
